


The Christmas Party

by tasteofshapes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Draco Malfoy Being Draco Malfoy, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Sarcastic Draco Malfoy, anti-gryffindor propaganda, begrudging friends, draco's definitely interested, it's all just a cover really, to a hint of lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 02:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22008739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofshapes/pseuds/tasteofshapes
Summary: Harry says, "I was told that there was an amnesty declared for the party today. Came to see if it was true.”Draco snorts. “It’s not an amnesty, you idiot, it’sneutral ground.”“What’s the difference?”“As long as you’re on the grounds, I won’t poison your Butterbeer, but it doesn’t mean I won’t be rude to you.” He doesn’t add that rudeness is technically frowned upon, since the whole idea of neutral ground is to try and foster common understanding, not start a verbal riot.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 187





	The Christmas Party

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly late for Christmas, but that's how I roll! I _might_ expand this into a longer work or a series, but there's so much that I want to do with this.

“Oh Merlin, who let the Gryffindors in,” Draco says, appalled, when he catches sight of a familiar mop of black hair. Harry turns around just in time to meet Draco’s glare, a cup of Butterbeer in his hand, and gives Draco a fearsome scowl in return. “Sound the alarm, man the doors, we have intruders!”

“Daphne’s dating one of them,” Blaise says, as if that explains everything. He catches Draco’s elbow and steers him carefully away from the Gryffindors, who, as usual, have congregated around the food like a horde of hungry wild animals.

“Greengrass? I always _knew_ she was a weak link! It isn’t Weasley is it?” Draco yanks his arm out of Blaise’s grip and whirls around, scanning the room for the Slytherin traitor, and finds Daphne holding hands and beaming at Parvati Patil, who is stunning in a red and gold outfit.

“ _Marginally_ acceptable,” Draco allows, “but just because _she’s_ got a love life doesn’t mean that we all have to partake in this scandal!” 

“Draco, this is not your party,” Blaise reminds him, rolling his eyes. “You know the rules. We can’t just kick them out.Besides, there’s so many people in here, you’ll never notice an extra addition. Or five.”

“Remind me again why we let the Hufflepuffs host this year’s Christmas party,” Draco says, which is when Pansy pops up next to them and says, “did you _see_ the riffraff that just walked in. Honestly, these Hufflepuffs. The one year we let another house host, and this is what we get. Can’t trust them to do anything right.” 

“Don’t get Draco started, but this is all Daphne’s doing,” Blaise tells her, and as one, the three of them turn to look at where Daphne’s got her arm around Parvati now, their heads bowed close together as they talk. Parvati laughs at something, and Daphne slides her hand to tenderly cup Parvati’s cheek.

“Oh I see.” Pansy shudders, her mouth twisting into a grimace. “In love with a Gryffindor. What a disgrace.” 

“I’m too sober for this,” Draco says, and leaves Blaise and Pansy behind to their gossiping. 

There’s a table tucked away in the corner of the Hufflepuff common room where they’ve stashed the alcohol, and Draco comforts himself from the horror of the Gryffindors invading the Christmas party by musing over the selection. For all their faults, at least the Hufflepuffs aren’t stingy, and there’s a nice variety of alcohol lined up in colourful glass bottles.

Draco’s contemplating if he can bring himself to try a Very Berry Whiskey when a familiar voice says from behind him, “I wouldn’t, unless you enjoy tooth-achingly sweet things.”

Draco turns, both surprised and unsurprised to see Harry standing there, firelight glinting off his glasses. “Potter,” he says icily. “What do you want? Isn’t it enough that you and your fellow louts have already crashed this party? Have you also come to witness my downward spiral into alcoholism?”

“I was _invited_ ,” Harry says indignantly, “and I was told that there was an amnesty declared for the party today. Came to see if it was true.”

Draco snorts. “It’s not an amnesty, you idiot, it’s _neutral ground_.”

“What’s the difference?”

“As long as you’re on the grounds, I won’t poison your Butterbeer, but it doesn’t mean I won’t be rude to you.” He doesn’t add that rudeness is technically frowned upon, since the whole idea of neutral ground is to try and foster common understanding, not start a verbal riot.

“So, you’ll be your usual self then,” Harry says, looking down at his cup of Butterbeer suspiciously. He tilts it this way and then, watching the liquid slosh inside the cup, then abruptly sets it down on the table and takes a careful step away from it.

Draco snorts again. “I said I _won’t_ poison your Butterbeer. You’re quite safe, Potter.” After a moment’s deliberation, he selects Bilshen’s Firewhiskey - aged for thirty-nine years, with a strong smoky flavour, and an aftertaste of figs and peat and smoke - and pours it into a new cup and hands it to Harry. 

Harry glances into the cup, then looks up at Draco, his mouth twisted into a small smile. “Are you asking me to trust the word of a Slytherin?” He takes a swig nonetheless, deliberately holding Draco’s gaze over the rim of the cup the whole time, and suddenly the room feels hot and crowded.

Draco swallows, but holds Harry’s gaze, and is proud when his voice comes out steady. “No, you’re quite right, never trust the word of a Slytherin. But we respect the rules of neutral ground. I’m not going to spit on fifty years of tradition just to get back at you on one day when I have the rest of the entire year to do it.”

Harry blinks at him in faint surprise. “Hang on. There’s been an annual inter-house party for the last fifty years? Why is this the first time we’re here for this then?” He frowns, thinking, and Draco can see when the moment of clarity hits and his face clears. 

“Oh is it your first time,” Draco says blandly, “whoops, did we forget to send the Gryffindors the invites?”

Harry snorts, draining his cup. “Apparently so. Every year, for the last several years.” He eyes Draco balefully for a moment, then reaches for the Firewhisky again and adds, “and I’m pretty sure I know who the culprit is.”

“What a horribly suspicious mind you have,” Draco murmurs, deliberately not meeting Harry’s eye. “Tell me, do you always harbour such uncharitable thoughts at Christmas time?”

Harry’s startled laugh stirs something unexpected in the pit of Draco’s stomach, and his cheeks grow warm. Draco looks past Harry to survey the crowd, because Harry’s looking at him with something almost akin to amusement instead of scorn, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

In the short time that they’ve been talking, the room has filled up, and over the general noise of chatter, the soft strains of Christmas music fill the air. Across the room, Blaise catches Draco’s eye, one eyebrow arched in a query that could be interpreted as either _need help?_ or _are you close to committing murder?_ , and Draco gives him a slight shake of the head. Blaise shrugs indifferently, and turns away.

Draco glances at Harry, and catches Harry smiling back at Hermione across the room. She’s giving Harry the same quizzical look, head slightly tilted, and he smiles at her, warm and fond, and shakes his head and turns back to Draco.

It doesn’t escape his attention that this is the most civil that he and Harry have ever been with each other, and he’s vaguely surprised to find that he’s actually having a decent time. Distantly, he wonders what it would have been like if they had started out friends instead of enemies in different houses. 

Secretly, he thinks that Harry might be wondering the same thing too. Harry keeps looking at Draco as if he’s never quite seen Draco before: surprised and amused and slightly wary all rolled into one. But they continue talking: about Quidditch; about Draco’s conspiracy theory that Professor Trelawney’s secretly a functioning alcoholic; about whether Professor Binns realises that he’s dead or whether he still tries to use the loo, and if so, how that would go - “I _don’t_ want to think about that,” Harry says, making a face, “honestly Draco, please stop putting these ideas into my head” - and the alcohol keeps flowing, and they don’t kill each other, and when Draco looks up after countless cups of whiskey later, the room has considerably thinned, and he realises that they’re both smashed off their faces.

“Right then,” Draco says, and he’s horrified to discover that he’s wobbly on his feet. 

Harry automatically reaches out and grabs his arm to steady him, and right, so they’re at _that_ part of the evening. “You’re plastered.”

“Absolutely not! Unhand me this instance: Malfoys do not get _plastered_ ,” Draco says haughtily. Or at least he tries to, but he slurs his words and ruins the effect, and he ends up leaning into Harry all the same. Someone has clearly poisoned him because the room has started tilting. “‘I’ve been poisoned,” he says, surprised, and then shrugs philosophically and almost falls down. “Bound to happen sooner or later.”

“You’re plastered,” Harry repeats, except that he doesn’t sound quite so sure of himself as he wraps an arm around Draco’s waist to steady him and peers into Draco’s face. Their faces are so close that Draco can smell Harry’s alcohol-tinged breath on his cheek as Harry stares into his eyes and tries to decide whether he’s dying or just being dramatic. 

Harry’s eyes are a bright, brilliant green, and for a wild moment Draco thinks that he actually _has_ been poisoned when his heart begins to pound and his breath quickens. Abruptly, he’s all too aware of Harry’s large, strong hand around his waist and pulling him close, and how warm Harry feels, pressed up against him.

“You’re fine,” Harry decides after a long moment, and Draco says stupidly, “am I?” Harry blinks at him, and Draco quickly corrects himself: “I am! I’m cured! It’s a Christmas miracle!” He takes a step away, away from Harry’s warm arms and the tangled thoughts that come with them, and Harry blinks at him again, looking slightly lost with his arms now empty.

“But to be certain, you may walk me to my rooms,” Draco says, because Harry’s looking at him like he can’t understand why he’s standing there and not in his arms, and the funny feeling is back in the pit of his stomach.

“I may? How generous of you,” Harry says, teasing, and laughs. Draco would frown, because he doesn’t see what was so funny about that, except that Harry’s already pulling at his hand.

The corridors on the walk back to the dungeons is blessedly empty and quiet for once, except for the occasional creak of metal as the suits of armour shift around. Draco tells Harry how the Slytherins found Peeves trying to possess one once, and how strange it looked, with Peeves trying to make the suit dance and the suit jerkily counteracting all of Peeve’s movements and complaining all the while in its metallic, creaking voice. Harry laughs at the story, and then laughs again when Draco tries to imitate the suit dancing, all the way until they reach the dungeons.

“You’re mental,” Harry says, but smiles as he says it, and his smile is somehow warmer against the light from the sconces lining the dungeon walls.

“How dare you, I’m brilliant,” Draco says automatically. Then he remembers who he’s talking to, and says, carefully, “well, you’re not too shabby yourself, Potter. Although I think you need to work on your compliments. You’re not very good at giving them. Although I do think I am very good at receiving them.”

Harry chuckles. “Yes. Well then,” he says, knocking on the dungeon walls. “We’re here. So.”

“Yes,” Draco echoes, “so.”

“Good night Draco,” Harry says quietly, taking a step closer to Draco and looking up at him through dark lashes, the light casting shadows against his face. “And Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Potter.”

“I’ll... see you around.” Harry looks slightly uncertain as he forces the question into a statement, but Draco nods. 

“You will.” 

And the grin that Harry gives him then feels like a promise of a new beginning. 


End file.
